Illusion
by ashhead
Summary: Michelle goes home alone after the events of Day 3.


She'd been sat in the car for…she wasn't even sure how long. It had been long enough for her vision to blur the myriad of colours from the garden they'd been working on into a greyish mush. Which was pretty much a representation of her mood.

Somehow, she thinks it would be easier if there were thick black clouds pouring drops of water onto her, soaking into her skin, beating into her. Instead, a determinedly cheerful yellowness casts blinding beams into the car, a reminder that everything's ok. After all, they did save the world.

But it's not ok, it'll never be ok, and she knows that. That's why she's sat here, blurring the beauty of a small garden that represents all the stupid hopes and dreams they never got around to, squashing it into a sombre grey, hoping it will take her pain with it. All the while breathing in the soft smell he's left behind, slight hint of aftershave permeating the car whilst the exhausted scent of pain and terror he breathed into her as he said goodbye still echoes against her neck.

How can it ever be ok. He's gone, probably forever. And she has to get out of the car and walk into the house, the house she bought with him for them to build a future in, and she's not sure she even remembers how to walk.

Tears haven't fallen, they won't, dry eyes bloodshot from exhaustion refuse the moisture that would soften them, how can she cry? She's alive when so many others died, she's free when he's not. Her life is perfect, she has everything, why should she cry?

She wants to, desperately needs to feel tears coursing over her face, burning into the sliced flesh on her face, just to prove that she's still alive, that he didn't give everything up for someone that doesn't exist. But she's not sure that she does exist, and the stubborn side of her refuses to let go enough to find out.

So instead she sits there, cowering in the car, hands clenched into fists so tight that her fingernails dig into her skin, afraid to move for fear that she might break the moment, might have to leave the soft greyness she's woven. If she moves, if she shifts herself from illusion into the reality of the emptiness of the house, she's not sure what she'll do. And she's not sure which scares her more, the idea that she might cry, or the idea that she might not.

Eventually, a soft grumbling in her stomach reminding her that it had been well over a day since she had last eaten, she lowers herself onto painful feet with a slight wince. She expects a quip from him, his gently teasing tone reminding her that it was her idea to put on such ridiculously inappropriate shoes, and so it's entirely her own fault, all the while pulling her body against his and supporting some of her weight. She hovers there for a second before she realises that he can't, won't ever, wrap his arms about her.

Teeth sink into flesh, refusing the tears the swarm inside of her. She will not cry. She is not the one who has to deal with this, and how can she cry when it's him that's paying the price. Head lowers, ridiculous curls that call for his fingers sprinkle about her face, and for a moment she longs to take a knife to them. If his fingers can't have them, she doesn't want them anymore. But she takes a deep, stuttered breath, straightens herself up, and shakes her head. He might be back soon, they might do nothing, he might be fine. But in her head, he's already tried and convicted and never coming back, she doesn't deserve him to come back.

Nervous footsteps, deliberately slow as she refuses to look at the half finish paint of the door that had been interrupted as his paintbrush slithered down her back, leaving a thick green trail as it went.

Key goes into door, lock turns, hands shake, but she's not aware of this, not aware of anything, this can't be what she's living. The door swings open, and suddenly all breath is gone. This is it. This is their lives, everything they have all built up in front of her. How can she enter? This is their life, theirs, not hers. How can she step foot into it when she knows it doesn't exist anymore?

But her feet are stubborn, they carry her forward when her mind cries for her to run as far is possible. Mechanical hands somehow close the door behind her as habit leads her to hang her key on the rack.

Shoes to be removed, they get strewn into the middle of the room roughly, coat as well, knocking a pile of bills onto dark carpet that she desperately wants to sink into. But knees won't buckle, she'd have to let go for that. Instead she slides through the corridor, refusing the memories that each step conjures. Across the kitchen- his kitchen- with dishes still piled high, as head slinks into the fridge. But not before noticing a blue post-it stuck to the door with his agitated scrawl and absent doodles decorating it. It should have been taken down months ago, but she's infinitely glad that it wasn't, fingertips softly gracing the indentations his preoccupation had created.

Opening the fridge, a vast array of foods, half of which she isn't sure how to cook, no longer feeling the urge to eat, it would only get trapped anyway, ash in her throat. The cool air she lets caress her skin for a while, brow resting against the shelf, trying to decide what to do.

Eventually, shivering slightly, she forces the door closed. A glass of water, his glass, still with fingerprints lining the rim. Swallowed despite the tightness in her throat, forced down her throat as if it would do something other than ease the thirst she feels.

Eyes close, a faint sting of exhaustion holding them there as she tries to avoid the photo in a battered frame in need of repair lying on the side. She doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to see him, even though he's all she can see, his scent thick in the air, her mouth filled with the taste of his pain. If she can't have him, she doesn't want to see him.

Feet drag her where she needs to go, her need for sleep desperately pressing against her, overriding everything. Stairs clambered slowly, an agony in each step, knowing what faces her at the top, but needing it anyway. Fingers prying into the wood of the banister, wondering if she could put enough pressure onto it to crumple it beneath her fingers.

Fingers hesitate on the door, but having made it this far, she can't see the need to resist. So they push forward, as she silently slips herself into the darkness created by still unopened curtains that the haste of the previous morning. She slides through discarded clothing onto soft sheets, just lying there, breathing, but how she's not quite sure. It's too hard to do anything else, so she just lets herself sink, closing her eyes to it all.

She awakens, not sure how she ever made it to sleep, but still there, alone in the darkness, now enveloping the outside as well as the inside. She's cold, work clothes unsuited to banishing the creeping coldness of the night. Twisting into his warmth, she finds only cold pillow, its softness biting into her. She can feel his soft laugh, telling her it's not cold, even as he draws her closer, wrapping her away from the cold that always haunts her. But even more, she can feel the emptiness of where he should be lying, the room seeming devoid of life without him.

The room quickly becomes stiflingly hot in a cold sort of way, no amount of turning banishes this. She eventually shifts herself, discarding the clothes engrained with sweat, blood and dirt, hiding herself instead in his favourite sports top, his fascination with the football team a continuous source of disbelief for her.

Sliding down the stairs, she sinks into the sofa, still incredibly cold, but fighting it, happy to be wrapped in his scent if not his warmth. Knees hugged against her chin, shaking slightly, she allows herself to sink into a feverish sleep, able to rest once more, pretending that this is just another late night at the office, that he'll arrive to find her asleep on the sofa, and will carry her upstairs, allowing her to waken to his dark eyes watching her apologetically.

She awoke twice to him. The first her eyes flickered open to a soft smile and tired eyes that nevertheless called to her. Fingers stretched towards him, seeking the reassurance of his flesh, meeting only empty air.

Burying her head into her hands, she twisted away from the door, praying her mind would let her rest. He wasn't going to walk through it, and she just wished that her mind would let her sleep.

It didn't. Barely half an hour had passed when she awoke to him again. This time she could hear his exhausted sigh as she watched him wander automatically to the coat stand.

His footsteps were hushed as they made their way towards her, tired, painful. She felt rather than saw the exhaustion that brought him to his knees in front of her.

Needing this, needing him to be real, she pushed herself against him, kissing him with an urgency, a pain that overtook everything else, praying the illusion would hold for just a little while longer. It did, her lips meeting with his, and she prayed that she could sustain it, hold him there with her.

He deepened the kiss, drawing from her as much as she was drawing from him. Briefly she wondered what this meant for her sanity, but she ignored that, desperately drawing herself closer to her husband.

Illusion broke noisily into reality, his gasp of pain jolting her out of her mind as she shifted away from him. Scattered against the back of the sofa, she watched as his fingers rubbed the bandage on his neck that her fingers had grazed.

"But you're not real. You're gone. They took you away. This is a dream." Soft, desperate whispers. She wanted so badly for him to be real, but how could he be, he was gone, this was a dream.

He brought his fingers to her cheek, and she shuddered at the hot liquid that graced her face, freshly spilt tears burning at her. "Not a dream…" Hoarse, exhausted response, "Real." And then, more to himself than her, "It's over now."

She looked at him for a moment, not comprehending what he was saying. He drew her too him, holding her despite her resistance until her body slumped against his, accepting. "It's over." Tears came now, a torrent of them that twisted sobs through her as he held her tightly.

The sobs finally softened, and she eventually lifted herself out of him, pulling herself up to kiss him so very softly, just revelling in his touch, and the fact that she even gets to experience it again. It deepens, but slowly, she just needs to feel. She's not alright, she's miles away from being alright and he knows it, but for now she just needs to feel him, and he's more than happy to oblige, her soft touch banishing demons of his own, if only for a short while.

Carefully, fingers clutching at him still, she raises herself to her feet, pulling him with her, climbing the stairs to their room with a slow urgency, desperate and yet gentle. She wishes that the soft grey of the night could be replaced by the dazzling colours of earlier, but then again, she's got him back, and all things considered, she's definitely got the better end of the deal.

He follows her up, just allowing the idea that he's actually here, with her, to sink in. He clicks the door shut behind him, turning in time to see her jump. His arms encircle her before she has a chance to brush it off. "Hey, I've got you. It's ok." He just held her there, feeling her soft warmth mix with his. She was his wife, and he wasn't ever letting her go again.

It might not be ok, but it would be.


End file.
